The Most Tender Part of Love
by Misbehavin
Summary: What will it take for Will to forgive MacKenzie and move forward? W&M, post season 1.
1. Instrument of Change

**The Most Tender Part of Love**

**1. Instrument of Change**

**Tuesday, September 6, 2011**

Sometimes words came easy to Will McAvoy; and sometimes they didn't. On the days they did, Will loved his work. On the days they didn't? Well, on those days, he should have listened to his grandfather and gone to medical school like his younger brother. Today was one of those days. He should be working on his closing remarks for Sunday's special 10th Anniversary 9/11 broadcast, but his mind was blank. He had to get this right. Absent some unforeseen event over the next few days, this commentary would be the most important words he'd uttered since the death of Bin Laden four months ago. He was good that night—no, he was great. Everyone said so. Now he felt pressure to live up to that broadcast. Of course, he'd also been high. _If only_, he thought with a wry chuckle.

But those days were behind him. They had to be. Too much was at stake—professionally and personally. He couldn't afford to lose control; and he refused to be anything like his father. He also promised Charlie and MacKenzie when he was released from the hospital that he wouldn't self-medicate again. He would take only what he was prescribed and only as directed; and that, too, was another good reason to stay away from marijuana and alcohol.

Over the past month, he had regained some equilibrium in his life. Of course, having a chastened Reese Lansing and the AWN ownership off his back at work, and knowing that MacKenzie had not rejected him the night of Bin Laden's death, helped immensely. However, nothing seemed to be helping him find his words today. He stared at his computer screen. He stared out the window. He stared back at his computer screen until finally he was saved by a knock on his door. "Come in," he called out enthusiastically.

"Sorry to bother you," said Maggie Jordan, as she walked into his office, the hesitation in her voice unmistakable.

He closed his laptop. "It's no problem. What can I do for you?"

"One of the 9/11 stories I've been researching is the price that journalists have paid in covering the wars in the Middle East and related terrorist attacks, and well…." she paused.

"What does Mac say?"

She shook her head. "I haven't talked to her. I didn't think..."

"I don't understand."

"You see I remembered something Jim told me and we… I mean me... I mean..."

Will could see his young producer's anxiety level increase by the second and he did not want a panic attack on his hands. MacKenzie would tear him to pieces. Unlike Maggie (and plenty of others), MacKenzie Morgan McHale had never been the slightest bit intimidated by him—not even from the beginning when she'd been just twenty-five—slightly younger than Maggie was now. But then MacKenzie had never seemed her age, particularly at work where she was a born leader with a vision and deep self-confidence he envied. "Sit down," he calmly assured Maggie while gesturing towards the nearest chair, "and tell me what you need."

She meekly sat as she was told. But she refused to look at him. Quietly she said, "I don't really need anything. It's just…."

"Maggie." He waited until she reluctantly made eye contact before continuing. "Unless you are coming to me for dating advice, I'm not going to bite your head off for a private, closed-door conversation," he teased.

She nodded. "There's something you need to see. You won't want to, and you'll be furious at Jim and me for giving it to you. But you need to watch it. You need to know…." She stood and without another word handed him a thumb drive.

He looked at the small device in his hand before asking, "What's this about?"

"Mac… It's about Mac," she said.

"MacKenzie?" he questioned aloud. But Maggie had hurriedly left the room, shutting the door behind her. Will froze for a moment as that indescribable feeling one gets when expecting bad news washed over him. Intuitively he knew that Maggie was right. He didn't want to know what was on the drive. However, in the end he was powerless to stop himself from inserting it into his computer.

He clicked on the only file on the drive and watched intently as it began to play. The video showed a crowd of what appeared to be an Islamic protest. He studied the topography in the scene and guessed that it had to be Afghanistan or Pakistan. He had no idea what was being shouted; and while the scene seemed peaceful, there was rabid anger in the eyes of the protesters as the camera zoomed in; and the tension was palpable.

After a few minutes the camera panned right to MacKenzie, who was reporting from the scene. His mouth felt dry as he stared at the image of her. She looked so like she did when they were together. Before May 11, 2007—the day she ripped his heart out—the single worst day of his life.

The pain was not as acute as it had once been. How could it be with her so present in his life again? Nonetheless, he still struggled daily with the fallout from that day and with the imagined images of her and Brian Brenner together that regularly flashed uninvited in his mind and haunted his dreams. No matter what he tried—what medication he took, alcohol he unwisely consumed, hours he spent with Dr. Habib, or even bringing Brian in as a test to ensure that she truly felt nothing for the man, he could not get those images out of his head. So long as those images remained, he was unable to forget or forgive her betrayal.

One thing had changed though. He had finally recognized after his release from the hospital that he had to quit punishing her for the past by hurting her in the present (not that he was always successful at it.) However, without forgiveness, there was no future between them outside the newsroom. He desperately wanted a future with her. He wanted to be her partner in everything. She appeared to want the same. He meant what he told her—or tried to tell her—after the Bin Laden broadcast. Yet, unless he could forgive, he would resist her attempts to get him to tell her about the message. He was a bastard at times but even he realized that to tell her right now would be utterly heartless.

A sharp increase in volume from the video startled him. Chaos had erupted, drowning out Mac's commentary. Suddenly a man approached her and thrust something into her before he turned to face the camera in triumph, an evil smile on his face, hatred in his eyes, and the long blade of a knife, now bloody, clearly visible in his hand. Then he vanished as quickly as he appeared. In abject horror he watched MacKenzie fall to the ground as the screen went black.

Will stared at the blank screen in disbelief. The video couldn't be real. Something so heinous could not have happened to her—not to the woman he loved. He would have known. It had to be a prank. Was he being punked? Or was Mac getting back at him for bringing Brian in? Or for the way he had tricked and manipulated her with the engagement ring? He berated himself for thinking that of her. He had explained about Brian, and she seemed to understand about the ring when finally he had told her a few weeks ago. Besides, such a prank would be cruel; and MacKenzie just didn't have it in her to be that way. Cruelty was his specialty, not hers.

And yet, he almost wished she could be deliberately cruel. Such a prospect was so much better than the alternative. He checked the date of the file—February 19, 2008—then replayed the video thrice more, hoping to find any sign that it was fabricated. He found none. And even though MacKenzie was healthy and alive in her office not fifty feet away, that knowledge could not alleviate the sharp pain he felt from seeing her that way. It was as if he'd had the knife stuck in his gut, too. How could this have happened to her? How could he have not known?

"Will?" He looked up to find Maggie again standing a few feet into his office.

"I did knock," she informed him.

"It's okay," he assured her. "What is it?"

"Mac is wondering if you're coming to final rundown?"

He looked at his watch. He was late. "I'll be there."

She nodded and began to walk towards the door.

"Maggie?"

Hesitantly she turned around.

Will saw the fear in her eyes. "I'm not mad. But who else knows about the video?"

"Just Jim. It came from him. He was there."

Will nodded thoughtfully before telling her, "Keep pursuing the journalist angle but leave anything having to do with MacKenzie to me. Make sure Jim knows that, too. And I don't want either of you speaking about or showing the video to anyone else—especially Don. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

After she left, Will knew he had to forget what he had seen. What else was there to do? The show must go on. He'd just keep reminding himself that Mac is fine. He closed his computer, locked the jump drive in his desk drawer next to the diamond ring, put on his game face, and went to work.

XXXXXXXX

Though Will had been unusually quiet and somewhat distracted all evening, MacKenzie was still surprised at how quickly he removed his microphone and ear piece and left the set after the broadcast. Over the past month they'd fallen into the habit of reviewing the day while lingering on set initially before heading to one of their offices, or to meet up with the rest of the staff at Hang Chew's. A couple of nights they even shared a very casual late dinner together. She relished these moments with him.

She'd been at ACN for over seventeen months, yet their personal relationship still existed perched on a tall, jagged fence, caught between the past and the present. No matter how she encouraged, cajoled and occasionally pleaded, Will would not open up emotionally with her, or tell her what was in the voice message. Nonetheless she refused to give up hope—hope that the barriers of their past could someday be torn completely down leaving them free to take on the future unencumbered. But even she had to admit that at times it sucked to be an optimist.

Something had to be wrong for him to leave the set so abruptly. Had he received new threats? No. That would distract her, but not him. He remained completely nonchalant about his safety. Had the weekend with his family not gone like he'd hoped? He hadn't shared many details with her about it, but she knew how excited he was about having all of them together for a few days over the Labor Day weekend—and how rare that opportunity was with the competing demands of their individual lives and with Matt, his younger brother, so often at sea or stationed overseas as an active duty Navy surgeon.

She allowed herself a wistful moment to wonder how it would have been to be there with him—to be part of his family. If she hadn't ruined things, they, like his sisters, may be parents by now. Once he got over his insecurities and fears of parenting, Will would be the best Dad. No, she corrected, he would be the best Dad period. Fears and insecurities be damned.

"Mac?"

She turned around to find her senior producer and comrade-in-arms looking at her with a worried look on his face. "Problem?" she asked him.

"Are you okay?" Jim asked her in return, gesturing to the completely empty and dark control room where she stood alone.

"Just gathering wool," she assured him as she took off her headset. "Do you need something?"

"We're leaving. Are you ready?"

"Has Will gone?"

He shook his head. "I think he's still in his office."

"Go ahead without me. I'll meet you there."

After he left, MacKenzie walked across the newsroom to her office. She set her notes from the show on her desk, pulled the elastic out of her hair and quickly ran a brush through it, hoping to leave her EP persona behind. She hesitated a moment at Will's door, wondering if given his mood she should knock. But when had his mood ever stopped her before? So instead she softly turned the handle and quietly stepped inside. Will was staring out the window. He had shed his suit coat but he hadn't changed clothes.

He must have heard her come in because he didn't startle when she asked, "You okay?"

Will turned around, hands in his pockets. "Yeah."

"Billy, did something happen this weekend?" she pressed, moving closer to him.

"No. Everything was great. They're all good. Why?"

"Why? Because you haven't been yourself today."

He sighed. "Nothing happened, okay? We had a good visit."

Obviously this discussion was getting her nowhere. "Fine," she told him. "Want to join us at Hang Chew's? Maybe sing a little for us? You did promise the staff a song."

He shrugged and returned back to the window, hands still buried in his suit pants.

Something was definitely wrong. She waited to see if he would re-engage and when he didn't, she went to him and placed a supportive hand on the small of his back, her body nearly next to him. She felt him sigh but beyond that he remained still. She, too, remained quiet.

After a time and while still looking out at the city, he asked her, "Why did you leave Atlanta and go to the Middle East?"

"What?"

"Why did you go?" he repeated.

In all the time they'd worked together on _News Night_, never had he so much mentioned in passing her time overseas. Why on earth would he be obsessed with this now? His voice was so earnest that she ignored the frustration she so often felt when she was completely clueless as to what was taking place in his head and said simply, "You know why."

He stepped away from her touch and turned towards her. Quietly he told her, "I don't."

His use of selective memory frustrated her even more. "You should."

"How the hell would I know? We weren't speaking at the time, remember? You should. You caused it."

By now she should be immune to his occasional verbal darts that always hit the mark, but she wasn't. "Yes, I did. I screwed up. I've admitted that over and over and over, including in several emails where I also talked about going."

"I told you. I didn't read them."

Although he had said that before, she thought he'd been lying, trying to save face. Now she knew she'd been delusional. He hadn't read any of them. He truly hadn't cared. "Then don't stand here and blame me for your ignorance when it was something you wanted." She turned away from him.

"MacKenzie…"

All she heard was condescension in his voice. She turned around, fire in her eyes. "You have no right to question me—question my decisions. You cut me out of your life. You left me sitting alone on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial after midnight because I had the gall to want to start what I thought was going to be our life together—our marriage—with complete honesty between us. You didn't even allow me to explain. You turned your back on me and walked away… and you never looked back."

"Is that a question, Mac?" he asked, hands on his hips and defiance in his eyes that she would question that he was anything but justified in reacting like he did.

"No, it's not a question. It's a fact. At least be honest and admit it, Will."

"Alright. I admit it. Happy now?"

She shook her head. "What do you think? Do you think this is how I want things to be with us—how I've ever wanted things between us?"

The hurt and anger in her voice pierced him and he swore under his breath. "I know it's not," he acknowledged. "Please, MacKenzie, why did you go?"

His anger and defiance disappeared as quickly as they came to be replaced by an almost pleading. However, still stinging from their exchange, she wasn't ready to give in completely. "It's been three-and-a-half years, why is it so important for you now?"

"It just is…. It just is." He returned to the window.

MacKenzie watched him again thrust his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. She was still clueless as to what was going on, but she couldn't take seeing him this way. She took a few steps towards him and hoping she could find the right words, she told him, "I came to hate producing and being in a newsroom; and Atlanta just wasn't for me. I was suffocating. D.C. was too painful, which, of course, is why I left there in the first place. New York obviously was not an option. So I got out. It's what I know and what I'm good at."

He again turned to her and closing the short distance between them, he put his hands on her shoulders. "But it isn't what you want."

It would be pointless to lie to him. He knew well the history of her youth, of being moved from one diplomatic outpost to another throughout her adolescence until her last two years of high school when they'd returned to the metro-DC area after a short stint in England because she insisted it was the only place she could be happy. But even the city she had so adored as a child felt strange initially. "No, it's not," she acknowledged. But she refused to look at his face, to let him see how vulnerable that admission made her feel.

Only he refused to leave it there. Gently he cupped and lifted her chin until they were face to face. "What you want is a home."

"Yes," she whispered.

She was startled when he stepped back as if he'd been burned. She was more surprised when he said, "You left because of me."

"Because of us, Billy. Because of us." She took his hand and watched breathlessly as he looked down at their joined hands before returning his gaze to hers. But he didn't pull away. Buoyed up, she asked him, "What did the message say?" They had teased and joked around the subject for a month now, and suddenly she felt like she was at the end of her rope. She had to know.

He dropped her hand. "I can't do this now."

"When Will? When can you do it?"

"I can't." He shook his head. "I'm not being a jerk here, it's just best this way."

"Best for who?" she asked.

"Best for you."

She turned and walked away.

"Where are you going?" he called out.

She turned back to face him. "I'm going to my apartment. Don't worry. I won't ask again."

Will just watched her leave. What else could he do? He couldn't go after her. Instead he packed up his laptop, including the thumb drive. He called Lonny, and then he, too, went to his apartment, feeling as hopeless and adrift as the woman he loved.


	2. A New Nightmare

**2. A New Nightmare**

** Wednesday, September 7, 2011**

At 3 a.m. Will gave up on trying to sleep. Every time he began to drift off the same image played over and over in his mind: The thrust of a dagger and MacKenzie crumpling to the ground. Again and again he told himself that she was fine—asleep in her bed a few miles away. But still the image came.

Perhaps watching the video repeatedly would break its spell. Will copied the file to his laptop and watched it until he believed he was numb to it. Once again he tried to sleep; and once again, the attempt was in vain. If anything the image in his head was more disturbing and more gruesome. Exasperated, he again rolled out of bed. How he wanted to immerse himself in a bottle of bourbon! But he promised. Besides, falling into that trap again would be stupid. Instead he drank a glass of water and stepped outside onto his balcony, hoping the view and the cool morning air would give him some much needed perspective (or at least clear his head).

Was he making a mountain out of nothing? Maybe what happened looked a lot worse than it was in reality. If it had been a big deal, he would have known. It would have been a story; and to his knowledge, it never had been. Besides, Mac certainly didn't seem to be affected by it. Fundamentally, she was the same as she'd always been: passionate, strong-willed, idealistic and optimistic. She was older, of course, and wiser; but it had been 3.5 years. If it had been serious, surely there would be visible signs of the trauma.

He went back inside and again opened his laptop. He double-checked the date of the file and did an Internet search on protests in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He found stories of a Shiite protest in Islamabad on that date, but nothing about MacKenzie, or an injury to an American journalist. He sighed in relief; and then laughed at himself for making such a big deal out of it. Nothing had really changed since yesterday. MacKenzie was safe and sleeping soundly a couple miles away.

He hoped she was sleeping. He doubted, however, that she was. He sighed. He hated how their conversation ended last night. Would things ever again be simple between them? He ran his fingers roughly through his hair in frustration. He had to forgive her. But he just didn't know how to get past her betrayal. Why couldn't she see that he couldn't just wave some magic wand and make the past go away?

Of course, Jack Habib could well be right that he was overly sensitive to it. How could he not be? For decades he witnessed the hurt in his mother's eyes that never quite disappeared after his father repeatedly cheated on her and then abandoned them for a new life heaven only knows where with his latest mistress, a woman who was his supposed "soul mate." In spite of the alcohol and the abuse, his mother loved John McAvoy—for all the good it did her. Will felt his anxiety grow and his chest tightened.

He hurried inside, flipped on a lamp, and sat down at his piano. Will loved music. It was vital to his well-being and sense of self. But he had come to hate the piano as a boy. He detested the endless hours he was forced to practice and the constant badgering of his father. He resented that he was apparently a substitute for his father's own shattered dreams. Most of all he abhorred that his playing was often the only thing that protected his family and distracted his father when the man flew into a drunken rage (until Will became big enough to take matters into his own hands in a different way). Will swore on the day the bastard ran out that he would never play the piano again.

Instead he threw himself even more into sports, which was something else his father—who had no athletic ability save for his fists under the influence of alcohol—hated. But over time he discovered that playing ball—much as he loved it—couldn't satisfy him completely. He could not deny the music that lived in his soul. So he turned to the guitar (and to singing). Lately, however, it had not been enough. He couldn't get from them what he needed.

Then a week after his release from the hospital he attended a benefit concert featuring a piano prodigy and everything changed. Had there been something about the young man and the effortless ways his fingers masterfully worked the keys that reminded him of himself? Or was it the beauty in the haunting melodies that called to him like a siren? He did not know. But something re-awakened in him that night. He felt the itch to play again.

He thought the urge would fade in a few days and he would again be satisfied with his guitars. It didn't. He recognized now that it was like comparing football to baseball. He loved both equally, but piano—like baseball—breached his soul on a level that guitar and football couldn't quite reach.

So he broke the promise he made to himself as a twelve year-old, gave into the itch and bought a piano. Now when his soul was restless, he played. When he felt happy and hopeful, he also played. The piano soothed and enhanced such a broader range of emotions than his guitars. Of course, he played them, too. They had been his confidantes throughout the intervening decades of his life. That kind of friendship could never be replaced. At the same time, he welcomed the return of his old companion: a companion that had experienced so much childhood trauma with him; and a friend, who though blameless, he had cast aside before returning to her like a prodigal son who finally found his way home.

This morning he turned his attention to Beethoven. Soon he was lost. It wasn't until Rosa, his housekeeper, came in that he realized the time and that he was running late for his weekly breakfast with Charlie.

XXXXXXXXXX

The adrenaline of rushing to get someplace in a hurry kept Will's anxiety at bay. But it returned with a vengeance the moment he walked into the AWN building. He felt as unsettled as he had when he left the night before; maybe even more so. He didn't want to lose what he and MacKenzie had built the past seventeen months. And the pit in his stomach that he felt the moment Maggie gave him the video file seemed twice as big this morning. Get a grip, he told himself, as he rode the elevator up to the dining room. Determined to put the events of the past ten hours behind him, he put a smile on his face and greeted Charlie like he had not a care in the world.

However, his façade must have been a complete failure because half way into their meal Charlie asked, "Kiddo, what's bothering you? I asked if you would be putting the breakup of Kris Humphries and Kim Kardashian in the A block and you told me 'Mac hasn't decided yet.'"

Will stared at him in disbelief. "Did I really?"

The older man smiled. "No. I was just checking to see if more than your body is sitting at the table."

"Sorry," Will admitted somewhat sheepishly.

"Son, what is it?"

"Why didn't you tell me about the stabbing?"

"You're not high again, are you?"

Will ignored the jab. "MacKenzie. You never told me she was knifed."

"Knifed?"

"February 19, 2008 in Islamabad. I've seen the video. Charlie, if you've been keeping this from me…"

"William, I honestly know nothing. What did you see?"

Will explained what he had seen on the video file and what he had learned—or hadn't learned—from the Internet. As he finished, he saw the same outrage and astonishment in his boss and friend that he had felt.

"I had no idea," Charlie told him and Will had no doubt it was true.

"How did this not get out? She's an American journalist and the daughter of a British diplomat for heaven's sake." Will reached in his pocket for a cigarette before remembering where he was—or wasn't. His position allowed him to circumvent the Clean Air Act, but only in the confines of his office. He'd been trying to cut back (one more thing he promised MacKenzie). But today, the craving felt unbearable.

"Was that a rhetorical question?"

"Yes… No. I don't know."

Charlie shrugged. "You know MacKenzie. She would never allow herself to be a story; and I imagine she used every contact she has in two governments to keep it uncovered. You know that…."

"Yes, I do," Will agreed.

"Why is this so important to you now? It was three and a half years ago. She's healthy—at least she was when we spoke yesterday."

"I don't know. It just is."

"Have you asked her about it?"

Will shook his head, a look on his face that suggested the thought never occurred to him. "No."

"Are you afraid to bring it up with her? Afraid of what you'll learn?"

"No…" Will began before rethinking his answer when he saw the knowing look on Charlie's face. "Maybe," he admitted. "Wouldn't you be?"

Charlie chuckled in agreement and then said, "She remained embedded for another two years. She's been back almost eighteen months. I've never seen anything to suggest she is suffering from any physical problems or any kind of post-traumatic stress for that matter."

"What if you're wrong? What if she's fooling us and she is suffering, physically or otherwise? The attack was brutal."

"She's strong, William… and stubborn."

"I know, but…" Will shivered as the image of MacKenzie crumpling to the ground washed over him again. He closed his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the image.

"What is it?"

Will contemplated his reply. He couldn't tell Charlie about the nightmares. How could he when he didn't understand them himself? Besides, that wasn't the kind of information he shared with anyone—except under extreme duress (or MacKenzie's almost mystical powers of persuasion and coaxing). So he went with the easy answer. "Nothing."

"Would you like me to make some discreet calls to CNN to see what I can find out about it?"

"I'll handle it."

"Fine. But you'll tell me what you find out?"

Will nodded.

Charlie changed the subject. "By the way, how's sorority girl working out?"

"Her name is Jennifer Johnson."

Charlie smiled. "I know. I was just pushing your buttons."

"Are you just entertaining yourself or do you really want to know?"

"I want to know."

"She's a really bright kid. Mac, of course, has taken her under her wing—just like all of them."

"It was ingenious of MacKenzie to bring her here."

"I know," Will admitted with a reflective smile, thinking about the day Jenny arrived in the newsroom. Then he thought about the day MacKenzie walked into the newsroom, and how the two arrivals would always be linked in his mind. The two of them had completely changed his life. Suddenly another question came to the forefront of his mind. A question he had wanted to ask Mac every day since her revelation. But he was afraid. Afraid he wouldn't like the answer; and afraid that she would want her own answers—answers he didn't have. However, here was the perfect opportunity to ask Charlie. "Did you send MacKenzie to Northwestern?"

"Mac to Northwestern?"

"Yes, as part of your plan to build a new ship. Did you send her there, hoping something would happen like it did?"

"Are you saying she was there?"

It was obvious to Will that he had again caught his boss by surprise. "Yes… she was there."

"I'll be damned," Charlie replied in a thoughtful tone. "William, I wish that I had thought of it but I had nothing to do with it." He chuckled and then added almost as an afterthought, "Now I understand."

"Understand what?"

Charlie leaned forward and put both hands on the table. "When are you going to tell that girl how you feel about her?"

"Charlie…"

"You're breaking her heart again."

"I wasn't the one…"

"You think that you were the only one hurt the last time? That she hasn't suffered every bit as much as you?"

"I know that. But I wasn't the one who cheated. I can't get them out… Look, I can't turn back time, though you have no idea how much I wish I could."

"So don't look back. Start again. Look forward. Only this time do it better."

"It's not that simple."

"Kiddo, love is never simple. Wasn't there some line in a baseball movie about how it's the hard that makes it great? I remember you quoting that on more than one occasion."

"So…"

"So, it's also all the messy, human emotions that make it great. It's the fighting and the making-up, the loyalty and forgiveness that overcome the frailties and screw-ups. It's the surprise and the exasperation, the passion and the peace. Don't walk away from that. What a waste that would be—for both of you."

"Don't you think I'm trying?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure sometimes."

"I'm trying." Will insisted.

"Do you know what I think?"

"What?"

"You're afraid."

"I am not afraid," Will practically shouted in return.

Charlie remained calm. "I think you are. I don't blame you. Your parents set a crappy example for you. But you could have it all. It's all there for you. Only you won't take it."

"Charlie…"

"I know," he interrupted with a smile. "I'm a drunk, meddling old man who should mind my own business. But kiddo, I can't do that—not with you. You mean too much to me."

"I know."

"Aren't you supposed to be lecturing later this morning?"

Will looked at his watch. "Yeah."

"You didn't take vertigo meds again did you?" Charlie teased.

"Who needs them with MacKenzie downstairs?" Will threw back before leaving the table. As he began to walk away, Charlie called his name and he turned back.

"Talk to her. If you are as worried about her as I think you are, talk to her."


End file.
